


Book of Dreams

by OptikTop



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Other, shrugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:58:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8778622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OptikTop/pseuds/OptikTop
Summary: Dwelling on the past is a dangerous thing.





	

The coffee was the same as it was every day.

A little bit of milk, a dash of sugar, and chocolate syrup because she didn’t really like coffee all that much.

The mug was the same, a little cat with a bow that said “Happy Purrsday!” Its handle was slightly chipped, a memento from Bart’s terrible two’s. 

It’s a Monday, Bart and Lisa are at school, Maggie is down for a nap, and Homer is still at work.

All that keeps her company is the soft patter of animal paws every now and again, and the clock’s ever present clicking. 

Like tiny feet, marching relentlessly, to where, her mind could only guess.

In the end she dumps the mug, contents having long gone cold in the typical hustle and bustle of the morning school routine. 

There were many things she could do, the list of chores was an endless one that recycled its contents every day. It was so repetitive, so mundane, so….

Suddenly a thought forms, full of a nostalgic yearning she feels more frequently as the years have progressed. 

It spurs a trip up aging stairs, over carpet permanently scarred from years of abuse. 

When she attempts to pull the handle for the attic hatch it doesn’t budge right away. Of course it doesn’t, she’d asked Homer a million and one times to fix it but the result of that was always the same. 

So with a few more powerful yanks it’s finally unfolded, allowing her access into a whole other world. 

A world filled with things as secret and hidden as her feelings. 

When she’s fully up into the space the first thing that comes to mind is it’s dusty. Another mental strike against her husband, yet she couldn’t find it in her to be mad. It wasn’t worth yelling about, again, he wouldn’t listen.

Once the cord is found to turn on the dingy overhead light, she’s greeted to the sight of boxes brimming with her past. Of beautiful pictures she’d painted to life, small Popsicle stick animals that had survived the carnage of the art exhibit. 

There are diaries from high school, photo albums illustrating a happy child that slowly looses the luster for life the longer she keeps flipping. 

A box with wedding items are found. She thinks, as she spies a picture of her and Homer at the alter, that maybe she looked a little pained in the scene. 

Her mother’s words echo in her ear, ‘don’t you marry that boy!’ then the spite at being told what to do, spurring on reckless decisions.

The photo is quickly shoved under a pile of thick white fabric and she has to count to ten to make the aching in her face go away. 

Slowly the tour down memory lane picks itself back up, shuffling on to find another book.

This one is small and blue, little papers sticking out every which way. It’s titled in painstaking cursive with a golden pen.

“Important!”

She hadn’t found this on the last trip to the attic.

Spurred by curiosity, she cracks it open, wondering what could have been so important before the first page appears and something in her runs cold. 

There were nothing but questions purposefully poised as a reporter would.

There were so many.

From celebrities to politicians to even the student councils from her high school. They were scribbled on loose notebook papers, pamphlets, and napkins. All dutifully stuffed between pages so they’d never be forgotten.

But they were. 

Lost in marriage and home making and raising three children.

They were so far away with each useless load of laundry and pot of Mac-N-Cheese. 

There’s no use stopping the fresh wave of tears that fall on her wrinkled dress.

Who was she without her kids and husband now?

A nobody, a nothing.

There was no one there now outside of child rearing and husband sitting.

Marge bows her head and sobs softly to the little book of forgotten dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I wrote this.
> 
> You can blame about three things, FXX, posts about mothers regretting having children too young on tumblr, and one artist i insanely look up to drawing cute pictures of Marge with someone else.
> 
> I just
> 
> woops????
> 
> ?????????????


End file.
